The Distant Temple
The building does not breathe. It stands. Concrete and steel, rigid against the gray sky. You are inside. The air tastes of ozone and old paper. A hum vibrates in your teeth. Low. Constant. A frequency below hearing, felt only as a dull ache in the molars. You are the junior architect. You hold the blueprints. They are warm. Not from the sun, which is far away, but from within. The ink glows...
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